A Picnic
by Alcarin Elen
Summary: Oneshot. Boromir and Éowyn go on a picnic. A few differences and a sample of Éowyn's cooking.


**A/N:** This is an extension of a flashback that will be appearing in the lengthier piece of fiction on which I am currently working. It was brought to me by ravenous plot bunnies, who would not leave me in peace until wrote this down. I am the proud entertainer of the idea that Boromir, at one time, courted Éowyn. This story would take place some time during that courtship. Enjoy!

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Two horses, ridden by two obviously experienced riders, race across the great green plain. Their long, lean legs stretch out before them, covering great distances of land as the wind runs its wild fingers through the horses' mains and through the hair of the riders. The two horses are breathing heavily and white flecks of foam line the wide mouths of the two steeds. The riders, a dark-haired man and a blonde woman, are engrossed in the race, and the woman's eyes sparkle with excitement.

As quickly as physically possible, the horses and their mounts seem to fly through the grass till, by some unseen consensus, the two riders pull their horses to a stop. They stay there for several long minutes, with both the horses and riders panting for breath. The man and woman's eyes connect and their breathing slows. A comfortable silence reigns for a moment, and then the woman bursts out in laughter.

"Boromir, you surprise me! When you boasted so extensively of your talent on the back of a horse, I was not inclined to believe you. Théodred, however, supported your boasts and I very nearly expected you to be a great equestrian after all. I see now, however, that my original suspicions were correctly placed. I'm afraid that you may need a bit more practice."

The raven-haired man—Boromir—laughs. "Éowyn," he gently chides he as he gracefully slides from his horse's back and reaches up to assist his fair companion from the back of her own horse, "Surely you do not think so poorly of me! I was holding back, so as to not insult you by leaving you behind, choking on our dust." He grins, a charmingly boyish gesture as she playfully punches his shoulder.

Éowyn draws the reigns of the horses over their heads, leaving them to graze on the rich and abundant grass. They will not stray far: these horses are some of the finest that Rohan has to offer and they are well trained. She sends Boromir a short distance away to build a fire while she relieves her horse of a small kettle and a sack. She carries them to the future home of Boromir's fire and opens the satchel, pulling out various vegetables and meats and cutting them into the kettle.

"Boromir," she calls to the man crouching next to her, "did you remember to bring water?" A noncommittal grunt answers her. "Is it on your saddle?" Another grunt. Éowyn sits still for a moment and then sighs loudly. "_Thank_-you for your _help_," she spits at him as she stands and stalks to the horses, snatching a flask of water from the saddle of Boromir's horse. As she returns to her companion's side, she growls a warning. "That fire had better be burning by the time I'm ready to begin cooking, or else…" Her threat was lessened in severity by the smile on her lips.

She shakes her head. "How is it that you can be such a prized soldier to Gondor, and yet you are not even able to start a simple fire? It's crazy!"

He smiles—a forced grimace, really—and answers sweetly through gritted teeth. "My dear Éowyn, if you would like to attempt to light this fire, then please feel free to try. If not, however, please refrain from any more comments until I can start a flame." As if on cue, the flint stone sparks and a twig catches fire.

Éowyn sighs in satisfaction, as if she had orchestrated the entire 'lighting the fire' drama. "Thank-you Boromir," she expresses gratuitously in a syrupy voice before sliding the kettle into the fire.

The two lean back, staring in silence at the soup. Éowyn is proudly studying her creation while Boromir is contemplating his death, or rather how his death will taste. Éowyn's cousin, Théodred, had kindly warned his friend of the dangers of Éowyn's cooking. _Good friend indeed,_ is Boromir's main thought.

"So, Éowyn," Boromir finally breaks the silence, "who taught you to ride?"

Éowyn glares at him. "I am a woman of Rohan. You are suggesting that I required a tutor to know how to _ride_ a horse? Am I truly that poor of a rider?"

Boromir shrugs. "You are a fine rider—as comfortable on the back of a horse as Rohan's best spearman would be."

Éowyn seems slightly calmed by this complement and turns the conversation to more comfortable topics, such as the weather.

After a length of pleasant talk, Éowyn turns back to her kettle and ladles out a sample of its contents to taste. She nods her a approval and holds out a hand to Boromir, who stares stupidly at it. "The bowls, Boromir," she informs him testily, shaking her hand for good measure.

Boromir rolls his eyes. _So much for pleasant talk_. He hands two small wooden bowls to his bossy companion who scoops a generous serving of her concoction into each bowl and hands one to Boromir. Boromir stares doubtfully at the watery brown soup. As the liquid sloshes around in the bowl, large white chunks of fat are revealed. Boromir grimaces and bows his head for a quick prayer to Eru, asking his blessing of Éowyn's "delightful cooking." Silently, he adds a request for safety from her vile brew.

The two spoon a sip of the soup to their lips simultaneously. Éowyn closes her eyes and smiles. Boromir, too closes his eyes as the foul liquid slips past his lips. He shudders in revulsion: it takes all of his training as a lord of Gondor to keep from spitting it back into the bowl.

'How is it?" Éowyn asks him, her voice carrying a hopefully tone.

Boromir forces the poison down his throat and offers her a weak smile. "Its good," he manages to praise it.

"Really?" A smile plays with the corners of his blonde-haired companion's mouth.

Boromir responds quickly. "Yes."

Éowyn nods pensively at his answer, as if it confirms some thought for her.


End file.
